Questing, Not Coasting
by justicemuffins
Summary: One-shots (and perhaps the occasional two-shot) revolving around Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Multiple and various pairings as well as gen-fics and character studies. Current Chapter: "A Little Bit of Everything" (Skimmons)
1. Coy But Scrappy (GarrettBlake)

"Hey there, Scrappy. How ya feelin'?"

Blake makes a conscious effort towards opening his eyes. It feels like an elephant sat on his chest and, considering he got stomped on by Deathlok, he supposes the comparison isn't all that far off. Still, bleary eyed, doped up to his eyeballs and yet somehow still in pain and discomfort, he has to wonder what he'd done to deserve the fresh hell that is John Garrett's company. He makes a vague, ineffectual grunt around the ventilator occupying his airway, but somehow Garrett seems to get the message as a shit-eating grin lights up his features.

"Knew you'd pull through," the man says, clapping him on the shoulder.

The motion is just jarring enough to wring a dull moan out of him. Garrett, straddling his chair backwards, winces.

"Whoops. Maybe lay off the buddy-buddy stuff for a while, huh?" he comments, grinning again.

Blake does his best to glare, but he's fairly certain the amount of painkillers he's on don't lend much to the look. Garrett continues to watch him, smiling that insufferable smile of his, but it's gone soft at the edges. The longer they sit in silence, the more the seasoned agent seems to lack his usual roughness. It's not as though Blake has the ability to respond or talk back in any way, so he can hardly be good company.

Garrett doesn't seem to mind. When it doesn't seem like his fellow agent will be speaking again anytime soon, Blake allows his eyes to slip shut once more. He lies there, letting the ventilator breathe for him, feeling each breath it forces into his battered body. He'd like very much to go back to sleep, but it's like having an itch he just can't scratch; his injuries make him just uncomfortable enough that sleeping isn't an option.

"Hey."

Blake pries his eyes open and finds Garrett again. The smile is gone, replaced by a slight frown.

"Looks like you're hurtin' some."

Blake is in no mood to be teased about his pain tolerance. Okay, so, he's not the in-the-field action hero like Garrett and he does most of his work behind a desk, but he'd done his job today, hadn't he? Just because people like Garrett think less of him, think of him as a desk jockey, doesn't mean he doesn't do a solid day's work. He's done that today, he feels, so what more could Garrett want of him?

"Hold up. I'm gonna flag a nurse down, see if we can't get them to up your meds a twitch."

Garrett pats him on the shoulder—this time with a great deal more care—before rising and disappearing from the room. Well, that certainly wasn't what Blake had been expecting. The rough and tumble agent tends to be just that; gentle isn't exactly in his vocabulary. It isn't that Garrett's uncaring, it's just that, well… he's a Clint Eastwood. A John Wayne. He's a goddamn cowboy, is what he is.

Still, he hardly seems it when he returns, trailing respectfully behind a nurse.

"Having a bit of trouble sleeping, Agent Blake?" the young man asks him.

Blake hesitates but nods minutely. The nurse goes about fiddling with the IV lines before he steps back, smiling at Blake and holding a clipboard before him.

"Alright, that should kick in shortly," the nurse says. "I'm on shift all night, so if there's anything else, just hit your call button."

Garrett thanks the retreating nurse just as Blake begins to feel the medication kicking in. The discomfort that had come with breathing eases and he's able to relax, eyes sliding shut once more in relief. He hears the chair beside his bed creak as Garrett settles into it once more.

"Oh boy, you needed that," he observes. "Take it easy for a bit, make sure they give you plenty of the good stuff. You earned it after that stomping you took and that little trick you played."

Blake raises his eyebrows, cracking his eyes open to peek at Garrett curiously. The other agent rocks forward in his seat.

"Firing five shots to disguise the tracking bullet? Always knew you were a clever little bastard, but never figured you for _that_ clever," Garrett answers. "Never figured you for the stand your ground type, either. But color me surprised. And pleased."

Blake wants to blame the drugs. Because no, no way in hell is John Garrett coming on to him. Clearly his drug-addled mind is making connections where there are none to be had.

"So I hear you like Scorpios," Garrett says, his grin widening. "Whaddaya say when they give you the all-clear to check out of this place I take you out for a little… _celebratory_ dinner. Sitwell told me about this great place downtown where they—"

Blake begins to drift off as Garrett slowly rambles on about microbrewed ale and homemade wines and… something about dumplings, he thinks. His last thought before his lets sleep claim him is that it might be crazy that Garrett is trying to ask him out on a date, but it's probably crazier that he's considering accepting.


	2. Index (Phil & Melinda, Phil & Jasper)

One of the first things they begin doing is making a roster of sorts: known allies of S.H.I.E.L.D., known agents of HYDRA, those who are alive, those who are dead, and those they have no answers for. Melinda finds him, late at night, pouring over printed pages of rows upon rows of agent identification photos, bound together like sort of morbid high school year book.

He's going through all of them with a marker, circling the pictures of those with HYDRA, crossing off the dead. It will be useful to keep with them, but the task must be painful. It would be to any of them. He hesitates, the tip of the marker hovering uncertainly over one photo in particular. He pulls back, only to return, the tip of the marker touching the page and beginning to bleed through the paper as he continues to waver. She watches him do this time and again, unable to move past the photo.

Walking up behind him, she spies dotted spots of marker ink at the corner of Jasper Sitwell's photograph and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"You have to let him go," Melinda instructs.

Phil shakes his head and leans back in his seat. He caps the marker and taps it against his open palm, a heavy frown settled on his face. "Something's not adding up."

She knows that, of everyone, this particular betrayal has struck Phil the hardest. Phil had been Jasper's S.O., the one who had recruited him who had worked with him from the beginning, who had vetted him. More than that, they had been friends. Or so they thought, anyway. He's dealing with the betrayal of someone he thought he could trust and the loss of a good friend—because she knows that, whatever he feels about Jasper's shift in loyalties, Phil is mourning his death.

"He was with HYDRA," Melinda says, firmly, though not unkindly. "And he was confirmed to have been killed by the Winter Soldier. Let him go, Phil."

"But it doesn't make sense," Phil insists. "Him? With HYDRA? I've known him since—"

"What about Garrett?" Melinda asks. "You've known him since Director Fury recruited you. Do you have the same reservations about where you think his loyalties lie?"

"That's different," Phil says stubbornly.

"I understand," Melinda says, "that this hurts, and that it seems like the people closest to you, the ones that you've trusted for years, have all turned. But that's not the case. You still have your team and you still have me and that won't change. But you have to accept the facts."

Phil is silent for a time before slowly uncapping the marker in his hand and leaning forward in his seat. It's not without reservation that he crosses out Jasper's photo as a confirmed death, but the action allows her to believe she's gotten through to him. Until he stops there. He moves on to the next photograph, refusing to circle Jasper's in order to denote his allegiance to HYDRA.

"I am accepting the facts," Phil says. "And the facts are that we don't have all the facts yet. So until I'm given something that tells me otherwise, I'm going with what I know to be true: Jasper Sitwell would never willingly align himself with HYDRA."

Melinda bites back a sigh. Phil has always had a stubborn streak a mile wide, but ever since his return to the field, it only seems to have gotten wider; something she had previously been sure was impossible. She knows she can't sway him on this point, but watching him obsessively move through the roster, she hopes to sway him on another.

"You should get some rest," she suggests.

"After," he murmurs distractedly.

"Phil," she says, grabbing his wrist and halting his progress. "Put it away."

"Melinda, we need to do this," Phil says, looking at the profiles staring back at him, rather than meeting her gaze. He adds on, quietly, "_I_ need to do this."

Rather than continue trying to force him to stop, she decides to meet him half way. She's greeted by a look of wary curiosity as she loosens her grip around his wrist and slips into the seat beside him.

"Then let me help you," she says.

There is a brief pause where she can practically see the gears in his mind turning, before Phil gives in and allows her the use of the spare marker he'd brought. They sit silently side by side, compiling their index as the night wears on and reports continue to reach them from all corners of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s reach.

She does get him to stop, eventually. He talks himself to sleep, in the end, as she sits silently and listens to him ramble on about Jasper. She listens to him recall the early years of their association, watches the faint smile that forms on his face as he remembers a passing remark or action in years past. She allows him to divulge precious details of a treasured friendship because someone—_someone_—should know of them other than him. Someone should know Jasper the way he had.

It's only the following morning, when Melinda is binding their work together, that she flips to the page with Jasper's photo on a whim. To her surprise, the photo has been reprinted and carefully cut out and pasted over the old one—the one that Phil had crossed out. This new photo bears only a question mark.

What that question mark means, she can't say.

And she doesn't ask.

With a shake of her head, Melinda finishes binding the index and does what Phil can't: she closes it and puts it away.


	3. Just Between Friends (Maria & Phil)

Maria isn't sure what to expect when Phil requests to meet her for coffee, but it's not an invitation she's about to decline. Not that she would have in the first place, but something in his voice during that brief phone call had given her all the more reason to agree. There had been something almost insistent in his tone, something like barely masked desperation. Whatever it was, it did more than make her consider that this was something other than a friendly outing.

So she waits, arms crossed and elbows resting on the table as she leans forward in her seat. The location is terribly Phil: a clean, quiet mom-and-pop diner with reliable service and surprisingly good fare (not to mention a great cup of coffee). She smiles when he slips into the seat across the table from her, inclining her head respectfully in greeting.

"Director."

It surprises her when he shakes his head.

"Not today," he corrects her. "This is just between friends, Maria."

"Alright," she answers slowly, waiting for him to place his order with their server. "So what is it that you wanted to come all the way out here to discuss 'just between friends'?"

She watches him force back a smile, resulting in the slightest twitch upward of his lips. For whatever reason, Phil had chosen this particular location for their meeting. It isn't exactly local for either of them, but it _is_ quiet, seemingly discreet, and out of the way. All of this leads her to believe that whatever he intends to speak to her about today is something of a sensitive nature. As much as he insists this is between friends, she knows business when she sees it.

"It's a bit of a complicated issue," Phil says, thanking their server as his coffee arrives.

"Walk me through it," Maria instructs.

Phil taps his fingers against the steaming coffee mug before him, apparently gathering his thoughts. Maria takes the opportunity to study him. He's handled his tenure as Director well—the mantle resting comfortably on his shoulders—but it would be a lie to say the past year hasn't taken its toll. She sees it in his eyes, in his tired smile. Rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. from the ground up has taken blood, sweat and tears. Still, she knows he gives those things willingly.

"When Director Fury gave me the task of rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D., I didn't know where to begin. Looking back, I'm fortunate to have been surrounded by the caliber of people I knew needed to make up its core. He said it himself—if you want to build something, you need a strong foundation," Phil begins, staring into his coffee. "And I think we've all done well. I think everyone's done… everything that they can, performed above and beyond the expectations I had for them to create the kind of S.H.I.E.L.D. that I think even Director Carter could be proud of."

"I don't think you'll get any argument there," Maria agrees. "Even Rogers seems impressed and you know very well how he was against this from the beginning."

"No need to remind me," Phil says, looking mortified at the memory.

Admittedly, it had been something to see: Phil in a heated argument with his childhood hero. That had been a particularly dark time for everyone. When Phil had revealed himself to be alive, when Maria had admitted that she'd known all along, with all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets out in the light of day, tensions sprang up which were further exacerbated by Phil's intent to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D. But over the months things had smoothed over, relationships were repaired, wounds were healed and they'd all learned to forgive to put it behind them in order to move forward.

"So what are you getting at with all of this?" Maria wants to know.

"I don't think I have to tell you how important S.H.I.E.L.D. is to me," Phil says slowly, his eyes soft but his expression hard and serious. "It's everything to me. It's my life. But you know, the thing of it is, I think Director Fury knew all of this when he handed it off to me. We've all got different skill sets, different strengths. And he knew what mine are; building things, helping people work in ways they didn't know they could, seeing things that others can't. I was meant to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D., I think… but I wasn't meant to lead it."

Maria frowns. "I don't understand."

"It's not that I think I'm a bad leader, just that I think I'm probably better at it in smaller doses," Phil says. "Although, May might disagree, depending on how you asked her."

"Phil," Maria says insistently, ignoring the lighthearted humor.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. needs a leader who can meet its needs in every conceivable manner. It doesn't need a good leader, it needs the best leader. If everything we've all worked to build has a chance of moving forward, it needs someone at the helm who is made for that position," Phil says. "Which is why I hope you'll accept when I ask you to take my place as Director."

For a moment, Maria forgets how to breathe. Some hysterical part of her wants to turn to the nearest patron to ask if they'd just heard what she did, because it's just not making sense. Phil has been Director for all of a year and has performed his duties in a manner she can only call admirable. So why? Why would he ask this of her?

"What's really going on here?" she asks him.

"You know about the side-effects exhibited in others exposed to GH-325," he states calmly.

There's a moment of silence, the proclamation hanging uncomfortably in the space between them.

"Phil," Maria says haltingly. "How bad is it?"

He looks up from his coffee at last in order to offer her an attempt at a smile. The expression, meant to be reassuring, comes off as pinched, pained and he quickly returns his gaze to his coffee cup. All at once, Maria feels a something in her collapse. She leans in, reaching across the table and covers his hand with one of her own.

"There has to be some way—"

"Stark and Banner know. Have known. They've been researching, but so far…" Phil says, his sentence trailing off. "It's not looking up, let's just say that."

Not knowing what to say, she simply squeezes his hand. Suddenly, she has to wonder what will become of the man seated across from her. Wishful thinking that Stark and Banner will pull through with some kind of solution will only get any of them so far. Their best scientists hadn't been able to work around what had become of the subjects under the influence of GH-325, so if Phil is experiencing symptoms like theirs…

"There are some things… There are still things that I want to do, that I want to make sure are done before I go," Phil says, interrupting her thoughts. He huffs a laugh. "You know, you'll think it's funny, but this is really what I intended to do from the beginning: rebuild it the way I wanted it, get it as far as I could and then pass it to you once it was done. I just… didn't think it would be like this. Didn't think it would be this soon."

He sucks in a sharp breath, scrubbing his free hand across his face. He stays that way for a time, and Maria doesn't interrupt, just watches him breathe quietly with his hand over his eyes and wonders what must be going through his mind. Eventually he pulls his hand away and clears his throat, meeting her gaze. His eyes are redder than they were before, glassier.

"I just need to know that it'll be in good hands. S.H.I.E.L.D. and its agents deserve the best there is, and that's why it has to be you," Phil says. "You were made to lead this organization, Maria, and I know—I just know—that it can thrive the way it was meant to if you're directing it. I know that you can do the things that I can't and make the calls that I never could."

"And if I accept? What will you do then?" she wants to know.

He shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. "Stay on as long as I'm useful as an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and hope that Banner and Stark can pull through. And if they can't, well… just… stay as long as I'm useful."

Phil has no idea, that much is obvious. And how could he? If he's succumbing to the symptoms displayed in other subjects, then how could he possibly have any idea as to what to do with himself? She's sure he has ideas, but with his future full of uncertainties, they remain just that. Not for the first time, she feels guilt when she looks at him. She feels guilt for everything he's been through since he'd died, then wonders if he would have been better off remaining that way and feels guilt for thinking it.

Is he losing his mind? Is his sanity slowly being pried from his grasp? Is this how his second chance was meant to play out? It seems cruel, unfair. Of course, life has no obligation to be kind or fair and is often neither of those things, but in this case has to wonder if Fury had done the right thing. If any of them had.

He's asking her now for help, in his own way. Phil has always been the self-sustaining sort, as long as she's known him, the sort of man who prefers to do things under his own steam and to lick his wounds in private. Although a great believer in teamwork, he still never was one to ask for help for himself. But he needs her now. Because S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't just an organization to him; it's everything. It's the ideals it was founded upon, it's the people he considers friends and family. He's not just asking her to lead this organization, he's asking her to take care of the people he loves.

"Maria, do you remember one of the first conversations we had when you came to S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Phil asks, gently interrupting her racing mind.

"I think you'll need to be a little more specific," Maria answers.

"From very early on, you decided that one day, you were going to be the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and you told me as much. I haven't forgotten that," he tells her. "From day one, you were clear-eyed and hardworking, never letting anyone or anything get in the way of what you needed to get done. I'm not asking you to take this position lightly. This isn't because it's something you've always wanted. I'm not _giving_ it to you. I'm asking you to take what you've earned. Because you _have_ earned it."

Maria watches the man across the table as he stares back at her. His posture is relaxed, committed to what he came here to do today. There's warmth in his eyes, for her, and trust. He knows she'll accept, that isn't why he asked her here today. The reason the two of them are here, now, is because, in typical Phil Coulson fashion, he can't let a moment like this pass without using it as an opportunity to tell her he's proud of her, that he trusts her, that he believes in her.

"Tell me when and I'll be there," she says.

He relaxes further, like a great burden has been lifted from him, and allows a small smile to make its way to his face.

"Thank you," he answers, squeezing her hand.

She doesn't need to ask him what for. She just nods her head and sips her coffee and they continue on as though the conversation had never happened, enjoying a good meal and good conversation under the premise that Phil had invited her here in the first place: just between friends.


	4. So Long,Farewell,Auf Wiedersehen,Goodbye

It had started out as a passing thought which somehow developed into plans which lead them to where they are now. Phil calls it closure; Felix calls it a good excuse to get drunk. Phil drives them out somewhere secluded—which isn't hard, given their remote location to begin with—before parking Lola far from any manmade light, where they have the best view of the stars. Felix unfastens his seatbelt and attempts to shift to a more comfortable position, an action which draws a wince and a soft hiss of pain from him as his still-healing ribs throb in protest.

Of course Phil notices, because he always notices, and Felix has to glare him away when he leans over the cooler between them in concern. The other agent backs off, but still hovers patiently, waiting to see if Felix is as fine as he claims to be. The fact that he's still healing is a constant reminder that there's a _reason_ he doesn't usually do field work and that they're not exactly as young as they used to be—as much as Phil would vehemently deny it.

He hears the sound of a pop and a hiss of air as he settles further into his seat before a bottle enters his field of vision.

"Alright?" Phil questions, waiting for him to take the offered beer.

"Depends on your definition of 'alright,'" Felix answers, accepting the offering and watching as Phil pops the cap off a bottle for himself. "About as 'alright' as any of us, I'd say."

Phil hums noncommittally before taking a long pull from his bottle and slouching in his seat to stare up at the night sky. He certainly doesn't look the part of Director—clad in a worn-in brown leather jacket, jeans, t-shirt and sneakers he doesn't look the part of an agent either—but he does look to be fairly standard Phil Coulson, which is something of a relief to Felix given recent events.

"I thought you were with HYDRA," Felix says, taking a swig from his own bottle.

Phil nods, still staring up at the stars and distractedly peeling the label off the bottle in his hands. This isn't really news, anyway.

"You were the one behaving oddly. John was behaving like John," Felix rambles on.

"Like an ass," Phil says.

There's an undercurrent of fondness to his tone, even after everything, and Felix can't call him out on it. Everything they'd been through, all the years they'd known each other, that couldn't be erased. Even with the way it had all ended, it had started much differently.

"Like an ass," Felix says in agreement.

"I wonder, though," Phil says. "If S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't left him behind in Sarajevo, if we'd just tried harder to get to him…"

"You don't just ally yourself with HYDRA on a whim, Phil," Felix says gruffly, unable to keep a trace of bitterness out of his tone. "Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. should have tried harder to save him, but we all knew the risks when we were handed our badges. We knew that every mission we ran the risk of not coming back. John made his choice. And if he hadn't made it then, he would have made it later."

Phil has been watching him while he speaks, but after a beat of silence, the other man simply hums again before returning his attention to the stars. He stares up, his eyes roving back and forth as if he were reading a book. There's an intensity to his gaze that is a stark contrast to his relaxed posture; he studies the night sky as though searching for answers, for meaning. Felix eases back into his seat, and although they look up at the same sky, he wonders if they see the same things. Phil is on his third beer before either of them speak again.

"I killed him," he says suddenly.

"And do you regret it?" Felix asks, finishing off his bottle and reaching for another.

"No," Phil says with a shrug. "I thought I would. I think I _should_. I keep waiting, thinking I will. But it hasn't happened yet."

"It probably won't," Felix advises him.

"You're probably right," Phil agrees. "But I do miss him."

"You always were a bleeding heart," Felix sighs, rolling his eyes.

"Don't pretend that you don't," Phil says.

"I miss the man that made it through the academy with us and played his shitty music too loud and got us into the kind of trouble on Friday nights that made you forget what happened between then and Monday morning," Felix says. He tips his bottle back and swallows; both his beer and whatever emotion the memories invoke. "I don't miss the man that dragged you out into the desert and tortured you and ordered Mr. Peterson to pretend I was an ant crawling through his kitchen."

"Fair enough," Phil answers. He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Exactly how did you find out S.H.I.E.L.D. had been infiltrated? You never explained that."

"What the hell do you think I do in that room all day?" Felix snorts. "I spend all my time watching and coordinating. I'm no Hawkeye but failing to spot something that glaringly obvious would have been embarrassing."

"Did you suspect Jasper?"

Felix doesn't answer straight away. He hadn't suspected Jasper, just as he hadn't suspected John. But now, even after the fact, it feels strange to him. Looking at the chain of events, plotting out each point on the timeline, he sees John's betrayal and it makes sense to him. He understands it. Jasper remains an anomaly. There is no rhyme or reason, regardless of what angle he looks at it from, for this particular betrayal. It would be easy to say that he had been with HYDRA all along, that he was just that kind of person, that he'd done his job of making them like him and had done it well. It would be easy to say those things and that's why he doesn't.

"No," he says simply.

"I wonder who else might be HYDRA, without us ever suspecting," Phil muses, finishing off his bottle. He reaches for another, rolling the cap between his fingers once he's popped it off. "There are so many variables… We've lost a lot of good agents, whether they were HYDRA like Garrett and Sitwell, or they became a victim of them, like Hand. Who else? Quartermain? Carter? Woo? Finding out who to trust, who's left and who's still willing to come along for the ride, that's going to be a serious mountain to climb."

"Luckily you've got your band of merry men to support you in that task," Felix notes with an amused snort.

"Do you think you might come back?" Phil asks.

Felix turns to look at him, frowning heavily. "I think you've had a few too many if you're asking an idiotic question like that."

"You don't have to, you know," Phil presses on. "Right now, there's not much to come back to. We've never really had the freedom to make this kind of choice before; once you were in, you were in for the long haul. But now, where we're starting over… You could leave, if you wanted. Have a normal life. Do the things you couldn't do before because you were an agent."

"Alright, give me the bottle," Felix says.

Phil leans out of his reach, guzzling the contents down until he's drained the bottle. He holds it aloft with a triumphant burp before handing the empty bottle to Felix, who shoots him his flattest, most unimpressed look before stowing it away with the others.

"A toast to the new Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.," Felix drawls. "God help us all."

"All kidding aside, I was being serious," Phil says, still smiling faintly. "The game has changed and we can never go back to how it used to be. There's no shame in bowing out now and it's a choice I want to make sure all of our agents have. All I'm saying is you might want to give it some thought, Felix. That's all."

Felix knows he could leave. He could leave now and Phil would never hold it against him. But there's no hiding the fact that part of this offer comes from the simple fact that they're both tired of losing friends. They're tired of funerals, of clearing out desks and taking down nameplates, tired of deleting contacts and scratching appointments out of calendars. He's given it thought. The idea of leaving it all behind has probably crossed all their minds at least once, given recent events.

"I'm not going anywhere," Felix says.

Phil simply nods an acknowledgement, but there is gratitude in his eyes and relief in his smile. They sit silently for a time, comfortably buzzed by the alcohol and content to continue their efforts to empty the cooler between them. At some point—it's either very late or very early, Felix can't really tell—Phil turns to look at him, the action more his head rolling on his shoulders than anything else.

"I'd like to have a funeral service," he declares.

"You already had one," Felix grumps.

"What? No, not for me, I meant… wait, how was my funeral? Was it good?"

"It was quiet. You'd've liked it. Cap was there."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. Seriously. He was very serious. I'm being serious right now."

"Well that's… that's… I mean he didn't have to… but no, back to what I was saying. I want a funeral. For John and Jasper and Victoria," Phil rambles on.

"I'm sure that'll go over real smooth with everyone," Felix says, arching an eyebrow.

"Separate funerals," Phil clarifies. He shakes his head. "Victoria should be honored for what she did. She should be buried with respect. And… I know, I know John and Jasper were HYDRA and we've got to accept that but they, I mean at some point, they were our friends. And I want to bury that. Them. That part of them."

"Yeah," Felix murmurs in agreement. "I think we could do that."

"I think before we start over, we should make sure we don't forget where we came from," Phil says.

"Dead, but not forgotten," Felix hums, his eyes slipping shut as he huddles into his coat.

"Certainly not forgotten," Phil says in agreement.

Phil continues to talk, about John, about Jasper, about all of them, and Felix indulges him, because he knows that come the morning, there will be no more talk. They'll do what they need to, they'll bury their dead and speak fondly of those whose bravery had brought them there, but it will be the end of that chapter of their lives. They'll close the book and move on, move forward. As he drifts off to the soft, even tone of Phil's voice, he silently says his goodbyes and looks toward tomorrow.


	5. Tall Tales (Multi)

"I fought them off singlehandedly; all fifteen of them!"

John's jubilant grin slips off his face at the sight of Felix's unimpressed stare and the sound of Phil's sigh. Jasper watches him with bored eyes and Melinda is eyeballing the bottom of her empty glass.

"Oh, come on, that was a great story," John argues.

"Maybe the first time," Felix says, causing Jasper to snort.

"Okay, so maybe I've told it once or twice before," John admits.

"Every time we go drinking," Melinda corrects him.

"But you can't deny taking fifteen men out is still quite the accomplishment," John continues.

"Taking fifteen men out would be an accomplishment," Phil agrees. "Too bad it was only five."

"And how would you know whether it was five or fifteen?"

"I was there, John."

John pauses, squinting as he rubs his chin in an effort to recall. "...when did you get there?"

"The beginning. I was there from the beginning. It was myop," Phil says, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. "You took out five men and hit your head. I had to drag you out of the building."

By this point, Jasper is quietly sniggering into his glass, shoulders shaking as he attempts to control himself and Felix is sitting hunched down in his seat, eyes rolling heavenward at John's tall tale. Melinda shoots Phil a look before slightly twirling her index finger—an established sign to him that it's probably a good idea to close out their tabs. John hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Well what about the time in Belize—"

Felix groans dramatically and slouches further into his seat as Jasper bursts out laughing. John looks offended for about a fraction of a second before joining in, laughing raucously as he slaps the table with his hand.

"Remind me why we do this every month?" Phil says, leaning towards Melinda.

"You tell me," Melinda says with a smirk. "You're the one who started it."

Phil squints. "I did?"

Overhearing the conversation, Jasper and John only laugh harder. Felix has slouched down into his seat to the point that he's at eye level with the table and is shooting them all a mutinous look. Melinda is sporting a patiently amused expression and Phil has to give in and chuckle at his own blunder. At least now, looking around the table at smiling faces, he's reminded of why they do this every month.

(With the exception of Felix, who continues to look as though he'd rather be tortured than come along for another of these nights out, but continues to come along regardless.)


	6. Broken But Still Good (Phil & Leo)

Phil doesn't often spend much time at the Playground these days. There's too much to do, too many old contacts to look up, too many people to find, to recruit. He can't afford to be stationary and really doesn't care to be in the first place. But he knows what this is doing to him and, more importantly, to those around him. It hasn't escaped his notice that he hasn't been able to pay as much attention to his team as he could in the past. Most days he relies on reports from Melinda to let him know what everyone has been up to and how they're faring.

It weighs on him, like so many things these days do. But it never weighed so much as it did the moment Skye looked at him like… well, like a daughter whose father is too busy with work to make time with her. He'd told Mike Peterson that they made choices, that making this choice meant missing out on PTA meetings and holiday dinners and birthdays. He thought he'd understood that himself, but that was before this team came along.

No, they're not a conventional family and yes, they may be more than a little broken, but they're a family none-the-less. That being said, some of them do still have family outside of this. People like Leo. But when they'd erased their identities, they'd done so with the understanding that they couldn't see those people, couldn't make contact with them. For their safety. Knowing this, he wonders what Leo's parents might think of what's happened to their son. He wonders what they might have to say about Phil's involvement. Likely not good things.

Leo's parents aren't here. But Phil is. Or he should be. This is just what's on his mind when he finds himself in the lab on yet another of his late night wanderings. He's surprised to see Leo still awake, but then, Melinda had said that the engineer had taken to keeping some strange hours. Phil can relate. He approaches slowly, his slippers making a soft shuffling noise that doesn't seem to deter the young man from his busy mutterings.

"Late night, Fitz?" Phil asks.

Leo doesn't seem to hear him as he continues to tinker with whatever's before him, murmuring quietly, but purposefully, to himself.

"Fitz?" Phil tries again, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Leo startles at the contact, flinching and turning quickly in his seat. His hands fly up defensively as though to shield himself, to keep Phil away. Phil retracts his hand quickly, not wanting to make unwanted contact.

"Yes, what? Yes, I mean, yes," Leo says quickly, looking jumpy, anxious. "Sir? Something you… ehm… ah… Can I do something?"

Phil's grandmother had kept rabbits on her farm. As a child, he'd been fascinated by them. So much so that, one cold, winter night while he was staying over, he had crept out to the hutch where they were housed. He could see fox prints in the snow as clear as his own and as he approached the hutch, he was fixated by the sight of the terrified rabbits within. The way they had sat, still as anything, their postures rigid and their ears standing tall and straight. The way their noses had twitched madly, their whiskers trembling as their dark, beady eyes stared out round and wide and wet with fear.

He looks at Leo's wide, round eyes staring back at him and remembers the rabbits.

"No, just couldn't sleep," Phil says truthfully, leaning against the counter with his arms folded over his chest. "Seems you couldn't either."

"No. No. I was just… You know the, uh… the thing I was working on… the… the…"

Leo snaps his fingers repeatedly, vibrating so intensely that he begins bouncing on his heels in agitation.

"Cloaking technology?" Phil supplies.

"That. Yes. Cloaking technology," Leo agrees. "I would have had it. I was close. I just needed… Just needed a little more time I would have had it, you didn't have to… and it was dangerous, you see, it was dangerous and I could've… Why didn't you let me?"

"Because I needed it then," Phil says bluntly.

Leo's face falls at that, as though Phil has just confirmed some deep-seeded fear of his.

"It's nothing against you, Fitz," Phil says.

"Of course it is. I see the way the way they all look at me. The way you do. I know I'm not… I'm…" Leo says, snapping his fingers and breathing out shaky, frustrated breaths as he fights back tears. "I'm not… I'm not…"

"You're different," Phil says gently. "You're broken. But as a result of doing everything you could to save Simmons. Knowing what would happen, would you take that back if you could?"

Leo shakes his head. "No. No, I couldn't. Never."

"Sometimes we do something because it's the right thing. Or because there are people we want to protect. Or because no one else can," Phil says, trying to catch the younger man's gaze. "And sometimes as a result, we're different after. It changes us. It breaks us in ways we didn't know we could be broken. And we won't ever be the same as we were before, but being different doesn't have to be a bad thing. And being broken? That only means we need some fixing."

"But I'm… I can't do anything. I can't help. I'm just… a burden, I bring everyone down, I made Jemma leave because she couldn't stand being near me and I need to be… I need it back… I need…"

"Fitz, no one expects that of you. You have stop expecting it of yourself," Phil corrects him. "It's okay to be frustrated, but you have to be patient with yourself. Believe me when I say that pushing yourself is only going to make things worse. There are bad days ahead of you. There will be times when… you don't see a point to any of it. To trying. There are days when you will hate us and the way we look at you or the way we speak to you or the way we chew our food or how we breathe too loud. And that's alright. Every single one of us is here for you. I know I haven't been, lately, but…"

He frowns at himself, watches as Leo shakes his head, sniffling.

"I'll try harder. You deserve that," Phil says. He reaches out slowly, laying first a hand on one of the younger man's shoulders, and then the other. He squeezes gently when Leo doesn't shrug him off or pull away. "I've had some bad days myself. I can't say they're the same as yours, but I know what it feels like to be different and to be broken and to be frustrated with those facts. I'm still learning to accept them myself. It'll take time and it won't be easy, but I believe you can do that. Probably better than I can, if I'm being honest. And what you need to know is that I don't want you to get better so you can get back to work. I want you to get better so that you're better, Fitz. I want you to heal. The work will always be here and when you're ready, I know you will be there when we need you. Because we do need you. Regardless of what you think, we need you. You're a part of this team and being different or being broken will never change that. Understand?"

Leo doesn't seem entirely convinced. Phil hardly blames him. How many times had Melinda tried to tell him these things before they'd begun to sink in? They just need time.

"Do you want a hug?" Phil asks.

Leo actually looks startled at the suggestion.

"Because I kind of want a hug," Phil says with a shrug. "You know, nightmares and all… sometimes it helps. Can I have a hug?"

"Well, I suppose… So long as you're… I mean if it would help…"

Leo embraces him somewhat stiffly at first, as though he's not quite sure what he's doing. But before long, he eases into it, relaxes, and before long he's practically latched onto the director. Phil feels shaky breaths against his shoulder and tears soaking into his shirt before he hears the first sob. Leo doesn't object when Phil tells him it's alright, that he should let it out, that it'll help if he does. He only seems to cling to Phil harder as the older man rubs his back, promising him that it will get better. He feels the weight of Leo's plight and wishes he could carry it for him, wishes he could support that weight the same way he supports the young man now.

It's not right that Leo should have to feel so isolated, struggling beneath the weight of it all. This shouldn't have happened to him. But it has and they have to deal with it. He just wishes they could do more. He knows he needs to. He needs to be there more for his team, he owes them that. He has to find a way to make the time to be there for them the way they've been there for him. He can't be a shoulder to cry on and then disappear half way around the world the next day. There has to be a way to do it all.

Later, after he's convinced Leo to lie down and the engineer has fallen asleep to the patterns of circles and lines that Phil rubs into his back, he has to wonder if he's lying to the both of them. If thing's won't get better. If they're the sort of broken that can't be fixed. Looking down at the young agent's peaceful expression, he knows it's not a lie they can afford. So they'll just have to believe


	7. A Little Bit of Everything (Skimmons)

They've been dating for three months when Skye finds the pills.

She's pretty sure Jemma had never meant for her to find them—for anyone to find them, for that matter. The bottle is small, and the contents rattle faintly as she turns the bottle over to read the label. Part of her feels guilty, going through Jemma's bag like this, but she'd only been looking for some aspirin and had figured her girlfriend wouldn't mind, seeing as they shared more things than not these days. This, though, is something they haven't shared.

**FLUOXETINE**

Making note of the medication's name, Skye places the bottle back where she'd found it. If Jemma hasn't brought it up before, then it's probably none of her business. Right? I mean, that doesn't mean she's not going to Google it anyway, but after that, she'll be patient. If Jemma wants to tell her, she will.

* * *

Skye tries to be patient. She does, really. But after finding out what the medication was used to treat, it wasn't easy.

Depression.

It seemed strange to think that bright, bubbly Jemma Simmons required antidepressants, but Skye's no fool. She knows very well that the people who put on the bravest faces often bore the greatest weight. What really troubles her is that Jemma apparently isn't comfortable discussing this with her. Of course, it's her right to keep it to herself if she wants and Skye wants to respect her privacy, but she doesn't want the other woman hiding this from her out of shame.

"Mind if we talk?" Skye asks as she slips into bed beside the biochemist.

Jemma hums distractedly from her tablet, nodding in the affirmative. Skye rolls her eyes with an affectionate smile and pulls the tablet from her grip. Jemma looks up at her with surprise, her eyebrows raised and her mouth forming a soft 'o' of indignation.

"That was completely unnecessary," she complains.

"This is kind of the conversation that needs your undivided attention," Skye says, laying the tablet back in Jemma's lap. "Science can wait."

That gets Jemma's attention. She sits a little straighter at the words, worry written in her knitted eyebrows. "What's happened?"

"I've got a little bit of a confession to make," Skye admits. "I was looking some aspirin last week and we were out so I went to your bag. And I found a bottle of pills."

Jemma sits very still. It's clear she knows just what bottle of pills Skye is referring to and that this is a conversation she wasn't looking to have tonight. Skye feels terrible for putting her on the spot, but she needs to know that Jemma's alright. That's all she wants.

"I know, I know I had no right to go poking through your stuff," Skye says, hoping the other woman believes her. "I know this is something you wanted to keep private and it's not my right to ask. But it is my right to want to know if you're okay. Was it because of what happened to Fitz? Or being undercover for HYDRA?"

"It's not anything new," Jemma admits reluctantly. "It's… It's something I've been dealing with for a very long time."

Skye reaches out, takes one of her hands between both of hers. She raises it to her mouth, kissing her knuckles, wishing there was some way for her to help. To take that pain away.

"You can talk to me, you know," she says. "Or not. Either way it's your choice. But I want you to know that I'm here for you, however you need me to be."

Jemma nods and squeezes her hand, but doesn't say anything immediately after. If they're done for the night, that's fine, but Skye hopes that Jemma won't let this go just yet. She wants to understand what Jemma's going through—and apparently _has_ been going through for some time.

"It's gotten better over the years," Jemma says suddenly. "It's not as bad as it once was. But there are just some days when I… I can't. I can't help the thoughts in my head, as hard as I try to push them away, they push harder. I know it's not true, I know the people around me care, but sometimes…"

Jemma bites her lower lip, her eyes watery. She shakes her head, as if reprimanding herself for her tears, and Skye can't stand the idea.

"Sometimes I just feel… like no one cares. I know they do, I know that, but it's… i-it's not easy to convince myself sometimes. That I'm not worthless. Or that I deserve to be happy. Or that you really do love me. It's hard some days to believe that I'm worth anything at all or that I deserve to be with you. Some days I'm just… I'm just so tired of it all. And it's nothing in particular that brings it on, it's just…"

She smiles for Skye even as tears stream down her face.

"It's a little bit of everything, really," she says.

Skye doesn't waste a moment more, hauling the other woman in, wrapping her arms around her and cradling Jemma to her as though she might protect her from any of those thoughts touching her. Jemma shakes and clings to Skye for all she's worth; soft, wet hiccups fill the air as she does her best to stifle her crying. These are demons that Skye can't fight for her, but she's going to do everything she can to help her win that fight. As many times as it takes.

Jemma melts into her as Skye presses their lips together. The kiss is salty and wet, but they both need this. They need this moment of normalcy, of togetherness. Skye needs to show her that this is real; that it was real and always will be.

"I get it. You have to put on a face for everyone. It's how you cope," Skye says, against her lips. "But you don't have to do that here. You don't have to do that for me. You are worth… _so_ much more than you know, Jemma. Don't ever feel ashamed of feeling these things or for needing help. You are an amazing, amazing person and having those feelings and needing those pills doesn't make you any less amazing. Understand?"

"Yes," Jemma says quietly. "I understand. And I'm sorry if some days I'm not—"

"Shh. Don't. You never have to apologize to me for that," Skye assures her.

"But there will be some days when I'm not… when I can't be _me_."

"And, what, I'm not gonna love you on those days? I hate to break it to you, but you're stuck with me. I'm in for the long haul."

That pulls a teary laugh from the biochemist. "I think I can live with that."

* * *

Jemma doesn't hide after that. She doesn't squirrel herself away in the bathroom to take her pills, or pull away when she's in a rut. There are days when she's ashamed of what she feels and how she handles it, but Skye never lets it stay that way. They fight monsters on a regular basis. The fight might be different—because depression is a different kind of monster—but Skye's no more willing to back down for this monster than she is for any other.


End file.
